Reflections in the Dark
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: 2002. Joe does some following of his own. Early Joe/Roderick. Based on the deleted scene in the diner.


**Universe**: Pre-_The Following_  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Characters**: Joe Carroll, Tim "Roderick" Nelson  
**Disclaimer: **Based on a deleted scene between Joe & Roderick in a coffee shop from season 1.  
**Summary**: 2002. Joe does some following of his own.

. . .

_"How do you like being a lawman? ...Or does it get in the way or killing young girls? I imagine that particular life-work balance would be... quite testing."_

-Joe Carroll to Roderick Nelson

. . .

The other killer had stolen something that was supposed to be his. Something that _should've _been his.

Joe had tried to forget about it, when he saw the announcement of another dead girl on the news, but he hadn't been able to swallow his anger down like he could at other times. That girl was supposed to be his. _All _the girls were supposed to be his. And that news story—that news story was not meant to be shared. It was meant to be his and his alone.

Usually he let the news play in the morning, while he ate breakfast with his wife and they both prepared for work, but that day he'd had to turn it off; he hadn't been able to listen to it. The news anchors had said there were no leads yet, that the police had no suspects, but it didn't matter. The other killer may not have taken credit openly, but he'd taken credit away from Joe personally—he'd murdered a girl less than a week after Joe's second victim had hit the news, and now the press was stringing the three together like there was no difference between them at all. They were talking about a repeat offender, a killer with a _type _and a _pattern _and under any other circumstances, Joe would have loved to hear those words, would have loved to receive that credit—if only secretly.

But he had to share the credit with this other killer, and that made it all feel so very hollow and meaningless and, worst of all, undeserved.

That was why Joe was where he was now—crouched behind the bushes outside of the Sigma Beta Kappa sorority house—waiting for the man who robbed him of his moment of glory to come passing by. He knew he had to at some point. The girl had been abducted just a street away, taken to an unknown location, and then returned, dead and mutilated, to her bedroom on the first floor.

The police had roped off her room for days—they'd even toyed with the idea of evicting the rest of the girls—but the college had nowhere else to house them, and so those that were brave enough (or poor enough, as was the case for some) stayed, while the rest moved in with friends or found hotel rooms. Nonetheless, the police kept cruisers outside the house day and night, and most of the girls were escorted to and from campus by one or two uniformed officers at all hours of the day.

Joe knew the killer would return, because how couldn't he? How could you look away from something so beautiful? How could you stray from your holy land?

He looked over towards the street when he heard a pair of feet moving across the asphalt. The lights were dim here—the press had shoved that detail down the public's throats; Joe wouldn't be surprised if there were new streetlights installed all over the neighborhood over the next couple weeks—but Joe could just make out a thin figure moving across the street in the darkness. As he came closer, Joe realized that he was a man, and he felt anticipation brewing in him as the man neared the girls' house.

_Maybe this is him._

But then the man came under the faint glow from one of the streetlights, and the badge on his chest shone, and Joe realized he was just another police officer making his rounds. Joe felt himself deflate, disappointed, and he withdrew further behind the bushes. The area was crawling with cops these days; they were like ants at an abandoned picnic. Coming around constantly to pick at the scraps.

Well, so was Joe. He was just waiting for the right morsel to prey upon.

_Maybe if I kill him the second he arrives, _Joe thought, growing optimistic again, _I'll feel worthy of the credit. I'll have earned it._

He'd just been about to return to watching the house when a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Joe looked back to the police officer, his eyes focusing on the man's hands, trying to discern when he held between his fingers as he lifted them from his pocket. It was hard to see, as the man's fingers covered most of whatever it was. But then he turned to the side—like he was about to walk away—and Joe saw what he was holding, and—for a split second—he didn't breathe. He didn't think. He didn't move a single muscle.

Then Joe blinked and his eyes focused even closer than before and he recognized what that man was holding, recognized who it belonged to, and understood where and how the man had gotten it.

It was a lock of Shannon Harner's hair, the girl that had just been murdered; it had to be. Why else would he show up in the middle of the night here, to the place where her body had been left, if not to touch what remained of her above the ground and reminisce on how good it had felt to watch her body drain of blood, to see her eyes go dull? She had been a garden-variety dirty-blonde—Joe remembered the pictures of her from the news—but her hair shone brightly now in the weak light from the streetlamp as if Rumpelstiltskin himself had arrived to spin her straw-colored mane into the finest gold thread. It nearly blinded Joe, even from this distance.

Besides his own kills, he had rarely seen anything so wonderful, or so promising.

There was a story beginning, right here and right now, he knew, and it began with that dazzling little lock of hair.

His eyes trailed back up to the man, rushing to take in as many distinguishing features as he could before the man walked away. He was tall—nearly six feet, perhaps—he had an average build, but with a noticeable thinness about him, like he didn't always remember to eat enough. His hair—blonde, too, like the girl's—shone within the streetlight's reach. Joe stared at him, mesmerized as he slowly, very slowly, walked away. He nearly dragged his feet as he moved along at a pace that would've made a snail look like a cheetah. The killer cop, it seemed, was not in a hurry to abandon the studio where he'd created his now-famous masterpiece. Joe couldn't blame him.

Joe watched the officer-turned-killer (_or killer-turned-officer?_ he wondered) as he left, utterly fascinated by him. Joe had read about people like this man in books, and had seen them portrayed on television shows, and had heard accounts of them on the news, but he hadn't ever expected to meet a crooked cop in his life—let alone that he would share such credit and glory with.

He hadn't ever expected, in fact, to find anyone like him: someone who felt the things that he felt, and acted on those feelings—no matter how dark or violent they were. Someone who gave in, when the time was right, to the urge—

—to scare.

—to hurt.

—_to kill_.

Joe squeezed his eyes shut, stamping down that want—_that need_—as it struggled to rise up and consume him. He had to be home soon—quickly, actually—or else his wife might notice his absence. He'd been good about it so far, and stuck with his timing, but she was smart and he knew if he was late she might notice, and if she started to notice something, she wouldn't soon forget it.

It wouldn't serve him to arouse her suspicions, not when he'd only just begun, and so quietly, he crept to his feet. He stuck to the shadows of the bushes as he made his way back to the pavement. He looked over his shoulder if he went—not looking out for followers (he knew no one was watching), but to keep an eye on his new acquaintance. Joe wasn't sure what he was yet—an adversary? An ally?

For now he was a rival, nothing more.

_A rival, yes, _Joe thought, a smile turning up his lips as he heard a nearby car start and knew it was the man was leaving, _but a police officer, too. A dirty cop._

There were few people easier to track down than police officers.

And there were few people easier to blackmail than police officers—especially ones with dark secrets made out of shining gold hair.

. . .

**Author's Note: **Reviews would be GREATLY appreciated! I'm always on the fence as to how Joe operates, and with this new insight into Roderick and Joe's relationship due to that deleted scene, I'm on shaky ground where those two are concerned...

Please let me know how this went over! Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
